


Tell Me This Isn't My Forever

by BetterLetTheSkyBleed



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sad Luke, So much angst, Why Did I Write This?, angsty as hell, but mostly just sad, i hate myself for this tbh, luke's kinda creepy i guess, seriously, this is rude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetterLetTheSkyBleed/pseuds/BetterLetTheSkyBleed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like he hasn’t tried. He’d love to be okay, to be okay with all of this, to not feel like he was slowly shattering every time he walked into rehearsal or went on stage or did anything, really. If he could fix himself, he would, thank you very much. But he can’t; he doesn’t know how.</p>
<p>There’s only one person he knows that could, and by God, he sure isn’t trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me This Isn't My Forever

Luke plays the game.

 

It’s sometime stupid late at night (he hasn’t bothered to check the time in what he feels must have been at least a couple hours), and they’ve been at it since he first showed up. He doesn’t know why he even came in the first place--did he really think the same variables would produce a different product?--but he  _ is  _ here, and he figures it’s the only thing keeping him from crawling out of his skin. Playing the game. He’s considerably more intoxicated now than he is usually in moments such as this, when he’s playing, and he’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. It certainly makes it easier.

 

He knows Michael’s been watching him all night long. He figured as much. The older boy hasn’t exactly been subtle in his disapproval of Luke’s recent behavior, but Michael doesn’t  _ get  _ it. Well, Luke supposes he  _ does _ , but that’s not the  _ point.  _ And Luke’s too drunk to be thinking about all of this too much. Which probably just serves to make Michael  _ that  _ much more uneasy, but Luke can’t find it in himself to care right now. He’s got his own problems.

 

Luke plays the game.

 

He’s been playing for nearly six months now, basically ever since he found out. The shock carried him for a week or two, the desperation a little longer, but eventually the hopelessness caught up to him, and he needed something to take the edge off. At the beginning, Michael was with him. He almost misses it. It was nice not to be alone in this. And he knows he’s not  _ really  _ alone in this, but Michael seems to have gotten his shit together a whole lot better than Luke has, and if Luke’s a bit resentful for that, that’s no one’s business but his own.

 

It’s not like he hasn’t tried. He’d love to be okay, to be okay with all of this, to not feel like he was slowly shattering every time he walked into rehearsal or went on stage or did  _ anything,  _ really. If he could fix himself, he  _ would _ , thank you very much. But he can’t; he doesn’t know how.

 

There’s only one person he knows that  _ could _ , and by God, he sure isn’t trying.

 

Luke plays the game.

 

He can see them now; they’ve made their way back into his orbit. Luke’s eyes are glued to their every movement and he suddenly feels a little sick. To be fair, he did have an inordinate amount of vodka in the recent past, so that could be part of the problem, but he’d be stupid to think that that’s all. Those hazel eyes and dirty blonde curls are going to be the death of him, but not at all in the way that he had hoped.

 

He feels a hand sneak into his and he knows without having to look that it’s Michael’s. Not only is he the only person who would be holding his hand at such a random moment as this, he’s the only one who would have a purpose behind it, making it not so random after all. He knows Michael knows. After all, Michael  _ has  _ been watching him all night long. He used to be frustrated that he was so easy to read. Now he’s just tired of having to be read at all.

 

Ashton’s got one arm wrapped around Calum’s waist and he’s whispering something that must be sickeningly sweet in the younger boy’s ear, if the way Calum’s blushing is any hint. Luke tells himself that doesn’t hurt him. He lies.

 

Luke plays the game.

 

Luke has had a crush on Ashton Irwin practically since he first met the drummer. Luke has been in love with Ashton Irwin for only slightly shorter than that. He’d tried, tried  _ so damn hard  _ to get out while he still could, to push his feelings so far away that eventually they’d disappear, like a puff of smoke. He’d known from the start he’d just get fucked over, and he really hadn’t wanted to go down that road.

 

But Ashton’s laugh was the most beautiful music he’d ever heard, and a smile like sunshine after nothing but clouds halfway through January, and his eyes were like tiny galaxies, and they’d light up when he was laughing his magical music laugh and smiling his sunshine smile and Luke was  _ so gone. _ Ashton was everything he ever wanted and everything he could never have. Scratch that. Ashton  _ is  _ everything he ever wanted, and he doesn’t think that’s ever going to change. Everyday Ashton’s eyes get brighter and his laugh gets prettier and his smile gets sunnier and his entire fucking  _ being  _ gets so perfect Luke thinks he’d set himself on fire just to hold his hand and have it mean something.

 

But Ashton has Calum for that. Calum, who is currently pressed so tight against Ashton’s body that there can’t possibly be any air in between them and is giggling like a damn schoolgirl at whatever it is Ashton’s saying now. Luke is quick to pick up on how bright Ashton’s eyes are right now. That just doesn’t seem fair.

 

Luke plays the game.

 

Sometimes it’s easier. To pretend. And when he says sometimes, he means always, and when he says pretend, he means get so caught up in a fantasy that sometimes when he’s drunk enough he can blur the lines enough to actually make himself believe for a few moments.

 

He’s not nearly drunk enough for  _ that  _ right now.

 

He plays anyway. He can watch them, watch them move, watch them get closer (which, damn, that shouldn’t even be possible at this point). He sees when they kiss and hold on to each other for dear life and he’s got enough alcohol working in his system that he can  _ almost.  _ And almost is good enough for him.

 

He can almost put himself in Calum’s place. He can almost imagine what it’s like to have Ashton’s arms wrapped around his own waist, to have Ashton looking at  _ him  _ like he’s the most important thing in the whole goddamn universe. He can almost picture what it must be like to have Ashton whisper something to him that is for his ears only. He can almost envision kissing Ashton like his life depended on it and being kissed back the same way.

 

Michael squeezes his hand, and Luke knows he knows what Luke’s thinking. Because Michael’s been there before, too, and he knows what it’s like to pretend. And Luke knows Michael’s silently pleading with him to let it go, leave it lie. Get out before he gets worse.

 

But then Calum’s disappeared, and Ashton’s turned to the two of them with a grin on his face, and Luke can’t act like that doesn’t hit him right where it matters. They lock eyes, and Luke can almost--no, Luke  _ can  _ picture exactly what it would be like to have Ashton looking at him like that all the time. To be the most precious thing in Ashton’s world. To have Ashton love him like Luke has loved Ashton since he was fifteen.

 

Ashton comes over and claps a hand on Luke’s back. For a moment, he seems about to say something. Luke feels almost suspended in time, hanging desperately on whatever is to come.

 

But then Calum is back again, and he drags Ashton away without a word, and the illusion shatters. Michael grips his hand even tighter. He feels like he can’t breathe. He should’ve known. It always ends like this.

 

He escapes into the night with Michael hot on his tail. He’s not sure if he’s crying; he thinks he probably is but he’s too numb to know for sure. Michael wraps his arms around him, and it’s comforting, but it’s not what he needs. But then again, if he had what he needed, it wouldn’t be necessary now in the first place. The irony is not lost on him.

 

He feels Michael’s thumbs on his cheeks and he knows then that he is, in fact, crying. Sobbing might be a better word, but he’s not too hung up on semantics at the moment. Michael’s probably saying something to him, and though it’s most likely well-meaning, it’s also most likely some variation of I-told-you-so. And he knows, oh  _ sweet Jesus, how he knows,  _ one of these days he should listen to the older boy. One of these days he should push forward. Even though he’s almost certain there’s no getting over Ashton Irwin. One of these days he should try.

 

But not today. Probably not tomorrow. Because Luke is still  _ so fucked up  _ over Ashton, he doubts it’s going to be anytime soon. If ever. Ashton is still Luke’s entire life, everything in his world, every damn breath he takes, and his eyes like galaxies and his smile like sunshine and his laughter like music would remind him every single day.

 

Luke plays the game.

  
Luke never wins.


End file.
